Expressing pain through sarcasm since 2010. Welcome to the official site for bitter cripples (and those who love them). Smart Ass Cripple has been voted World's Biggest Smart Ass by J.D. Power and Associates.

Thursday, September 19, 2013

I finally saw Jesus. For real. He
boarded the number 22 Clark Street bus at North Avenue. He wore his signature
white gown and rope belt. The weather was chilly, so he wore tennis shoes instead
of sandals. He had a beard but he looked much darker than the Jesus in my old
catechism books. Maybe he was Puerto Rican.

And it wasn’t Halloween.

Jesus even had a cross flung
back over his shoulder. It wasn’t a very big cross. It was big enough maybe to
crucify a three year old. If he carried a cross as big as Jesus’ real cross on
the bus, he’d bop other passengers in the head every time he turned around and
the driver would have to tell him to get the hell off the bus.

Jesus stepped up and
paid his fare. All heads turned. Some greeted him. “What’s happenin’, Jeeesuus?”
One guy held up his hand like he was taking an oath. Jesus obliged him with a
half-hearted high five. But then Jesus just sat, slumped, trying to avoid all eye
contact. He looked like he had a hard day at work and just wanted to be left
alone.

This was a big moment
for me because I’d heard many people talk about seeing Jesus on the city bus
before. And now I finally got to see him for myself. And I remembered the days,
not too long ago, when cripples who couldn’t climb stairs couldn’t even get on public
transit buses. And thus we were deprived of so many opportunities. We were
deprived of opportunities to work and to go to school and to socialize. And most of all, we
were deprived of opportunities to see all the strange characters you see when
you ride big city public transit. I felt so inadequate back then when I heard
people entertaining each other for hours with crazy stories that began with, “I
was on the bus/train and I saw this man/woman…”

So when I saw Jesus on the bus, I
remembered those lonely days and I felt more righteous than ever about how we
cripples rose up and demanded access to public transit. Because cripples
deserve to fully experiencelike everybody else the Fellini movie that is life
in the big city. We deserve to be able to tell crazy stories that begin with, “I
was on the bus/train and I saw this man/woman…”

You aren't officially a resident of the big city until you have at
least one story about a passenger on a bus or train who spontaneously launches
into an unsolicited Samuel Beckett monologue. Here’s mine:

I was on the bus and I
saw this man board at Oak Street. He looked like your average white businessman
in a suit. Maybe he was a banker. He paid his fare. He pleasantly wished the
driver “good afternoon." He sat down in front of me. And then, loudly addressing
the empty seat across from him, he said, “Fuuuuuck you! You are not getting all
of my possessions! Not you or my mother! So fuck you and fuck Katie Couric in
New York, her and her pussy politics!”

And he went on and on
about Katie Couric’s pussy politics. And there was a woman in back who must not
have lived in the big city long because she didn’t know that the first rule of
survival when encountering a Beckett character on public transit is to try to
ignore them at all costs. She asked the
guy to please be quiet. And he responded, “Fuuuuuuuuck you! You don’t tell me
what to do, you and your pussy politics!”

And he went on and on
until we reached his stop. Then he stood and pleasantly wished the driver a “good
afternoon” and he got off the bus.

Go to:

"Those who are solemn and pontifical are not to be successfully fought by being even more solemn and even more pontifical."
Bertrand Russell

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